


The Parents Who Died

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Blood Magic, Canon Lesbian Character, Dark Magic, F/F, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Lesbian Character of Color, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Multi, Neighbors, Number Four Privet Drive (Harry Potter), Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Sirius Black Needs a Hug, War, Witchcraft, Witches, Wizarding Politics, Wizarding Wars, Wizarding World, Worldbuilding, Young Remus Lupin, Young Sirius Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Professor McGonagall looks at the Dursley's and says that they are the worst kind of muggles; so, instead of taking Harry Potter away, she takes herself and all her family with her.Right to Privet Drive.-or, the War has just ended, Minerva McGonagall is still in protect-the-children mode and no matter what anyone says: the remaining trio of Marauders are still her children.





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

At Number Six, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, neighbouring houses number Four and Eight, live two middle-aged women. New to the neighbourhood, the most that other residents have seen of the two women are shadows in the windows, the new cat taking a leisurely stroll down the pavement and the antique, Sherwood green 1947 _Jaguar_ in the driveway. Not even the moving van was seen, unpacking furniture.

At Petunia Dursley’s bridge club in Number Four, ladies of Privet Drive and Magnolia Crescent gossip fantastically, wondering and speculating about the new residents as they play cards and manoeuvre young babies on their laps. On the living room floor inside a plastic play-pen, more toddlers play around together with small plastic toys and wooden blocks.

“I saw one of them at the shops earlier,” Kerry Polkiss whispers dramatically, “the Indian one. She was wearing one of those colourful eastern dresses, with the gold thread and these _terribly_ large earrings. A black girl was with her – called her _mum_.”

“A teenager?” Jennifer gasps, scandalised. “Oh dear, maybe her husband died?”

“How horrible,” Petunia shivers, clutching her cards to her chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love,” Jennifer reaches a hand over to grasp her arm, “I know your sister died, recently. I heard the news.”

Petunia reaches to place a hand on top of Jennifer’s, shaking her head. “It’s alright. Lily…I wasn’t on good terms with my sister, not for a long time.”

“Don’t you have her son now, though,” Kerry grimaces, glancing back to where Harry Potter plays blocks with his cousin and Kerry’s son, Piers.

In the setting sun that shines through the window, young Harry’s dark skin is cast in a golden hue – but it doesn’t matter, not with that mop of black hair and that ugly scar plastered over his forehead, still red and glistening after a week of healing. Petunia doesn’t think it’ll ever get better. He could have been a pretty child, but that scar mars him.

“I do,” Petunia says quietly, back stiff underneath her flowery button-up.

Petunia Dursley never knew Harry’s father that well – even though James Potter wasn’t an uncommon topic of conversation from Lily Evans when she was younger, complaining about the group of boys that caused havoc and controlled chaos both in class and out of it. However, he attended her wedding and she can remember being able to spot him from across the room, the only coloured person in a room of Caucasians. In the back of her mind, she wonders if this new neighbour is from the same country James’ family was from.

“I don’t like how he plays with them,” Kerry says bluntly. “It’s not right. He should be with children like him.”

“Well, he’s in my custody now, so deal with it,” Petunia snaps, the ambient noise from the children cutting out for a slight second as small heads turn to look at the source of the anger. Kerry’s face burns, but Petunia blushes too, pale skin flushing pink. _Oh no,_ she thinks, _now I’ll be like this all evening._

“…maybe they’re _together_ ,” Rebecca whispers in a hush, in an attempt to distract everyone from Petunia’s words. Of course, the immediate disapproval radiates from everyone.

“No-”

“Preposterous, they would never let _that_ kind of person live in our neighbourhood-”

“How disgusting-”

In Number Six, a magical listening charm is cancelled, Minerva McGonagall rolling her eyes at the vitriol. Anger simmers in her chest, but she ignores it, safely assured that – for now – Petunia Dursley nee Evans will look after her nephew adequately.

 _Albus never said anything about keeping an eye on him, though,_ she grumbles in her head, brooding over a cup of tea and a new theoretical paper on the use of transfiguration in food preparation. At her back, her wife nit-picks how their daughter cuts an onion.

“You’re not chopping it small enough,” Nuliajuk McGonagall-Bukhari – called Nulia by friends and family – says, anxious. “This is a family recipe, the onions need to be _finely_ chopped.”

“Mama, I honestly just want food right now,” their daughter, Isobel McGonagall says, sliding the not-so-finely cut onion into the pan. Nulia, leaning against the fridge, crosses her arms in an attempt not to reach out and empty it into the bin. “Tradition is tradition, but food is also food. It’ll taste the same, either way.”

“Not if you don’t season it in less than twenty seconds,” Nulia rumbles, staring at the sweating onion. “Salt, cumin-”

“I’ve got it,” Isobel interrupts. “Go bother Mum. She’s cancelled that spell of hers.”

“Oh?” Nulia twists to look at her wife, “and how is it looking next door?”

“Homophobic and more than slightly racist,” Minerva says, blunt in delivery as she sets her transfiguration text down on the dining room table.

Nulia hums lowly, coming over to rest her hands on Minerva’s shoulders, steel digits of her enchanted prosthetic hands digging into the muscles there, massaging the kinks out as Minerva groans.

“Ew,” Isobel mutters.

“Say that to Mallory the next time you and her share a room in one of our houses,” Nulia says and Minerva wonders really, truly, if her gorgeous deep voice is insured for thirteen billion galleons – she wouldn’t be surprised if it were. It’s one of her favourite things about her powerful, loving wife. Minerva chuffs at her words, smiling as Isobel makes a noise of protests.

“I love you,” the Scotswoman says to her wife, the other witch leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Should I expect to find a kidnapped Harry Potter in my house tomorrow morning?” Nulia then asks seriously, dark eyes meeting green. Minerva shakes her head.

“Albus, however complicated his plans might be, is at least right about one thing,” Minerva sighs, “The magic Lily used to protect her son was sacrificial blood magic and it means that he _is_ safer from dark forces in the care of blood relatives. You and Miranda would know more about that than me, though.”

Nulia nods tightly, not impressed by the mention of them. Her hands dig that much deeper into her back – enough that Minerva winces, the pressure ceasing immediately. Nulia drops another short kiss to her brow in apology, before returning to badger Isobel. Minerva twists in her seat to look at them both, lip twitching at the sight of Nulia nudging Isobel with her elbow, trying to get in at the pans. Pressed up against each other, pushing and shoving in good-natured disagreement, their differences are so stark.

 _She was afraid,_ Minerva remembers the first time they met Isobel, aged eight and unable to speak a word of English. Her hair had just been an inch-tall ball of fuzz and she’d just _stared_ , flinching every time they did magic. _Look at her now_. Even as Minerva watches them, Isobel whips out her wand to stir the rice on the back-burner, topping up the water. Once upon a time, an eight-year old version of that girl would tremble at just the sight of a wand. She only relapsed once, when she was eleven and stepped into Ollivanders for the first time.

Isobel is a lot like Nulia, now. They both move their hands the same way, roll their eyes the same way – they even dress the same way, sometimes. Nulia can often be found in her colourful saris, choli tops and lehenga skirts with golden Sanskrit woven into the edges. Her garments protect the wearer and offer whatever boon is written into them. Isobel, a student in Ancient Runes and apprenticing under Bathsheba Babbling, likewise wears such magical items – but there are certain influences in her personal fashion style that makes Minerva raise an eyebrow, at times.

The jeans, for example, instead of lehengas. _Muggle_ jeans _._ Isobel often says jeans are ‘fabulous’, but Minerva is far from eager to believe her; even if Nulia tried them once, which made her look more gorgeous than usual, Minerva refuses to go near them.

Then there is a loud **_crack_** and a ripple in the wards, welcoming the invader. Minerva looks up to see Miranda standing in the middle of the patio – their dedicated apparation spot – already shrugging off her outer robes, looking around for somewhere to hang them up.

“There’s a set of pegs in the entryway,” Minerva says, after a moment. “We’ve not gotten around to getting those kinds of things organised.”

“Sure, Mum,” Miranda says softly, her assimilated Northern brogue the bane of Minerva’s life. She takes her boots off, picking them up before meandering through the open plan living-dining-kitchen to the entry corridor.

“How was your day, mermaid?” Isobel questions cheerfully. Miranda offers a small smile as she re-enters the kitchen, offering Nulia a short hug as she goes to join Minerva at the table.

“Exhausting,” Miranda says, sounding and looking exactly that. Minerva purses her lips at the dark bags under her eyes.

“How long are you working a day? Still eleven hours?”

“I get a half-hour break twice a day,” Miranda assures and Minerva doesn’t press – Miranda might look exhausted, but she isn’t despairing or honestly sick of her job. The witch thinks that her eldest daughter is luckier than a leprechaun to have found her dream profession and enjoy it as much as she does.

“Don’t burn yourself out,” she offers a last comment, before once more, they’re interrupted. A silver Bengal tiger patronus flies into the room, stopping in mid-air. Minerva immediately straightens, watching it pad the open air as if it were the ground, heart beating fast. Every witch in the room becomes tense, an ingrained reaction – one that hopefully will fade and be forgotten, what with the end of the War.

“Roberta,” Isobel mutters loudly.

The Bengal opens its jaw, Roberta’s voice escaping it. “ _It’s not an emergency, I just accidentally flooed to our old house and you’ve not disabled wards- or any of the wards, really. But anyway, yeah, that includes the anti-apparation wards and there’s no more Floo powder, you really-_ ”

“And we’re not connected to the Floo here yet, either,” Nulia bemoans over her words, all McGonagall’s in the room groaning as they know what’s coming.

“- _so, anyway, I’m going to catch a lift on the Knight Bus, even though I know I’m probably going to end up feeling too ill to eat. Can you send me a return message with your address? Thanks mums, see you soon – hopefully!_ ” Roberta’s message finishes and her Bengal turns to fine mist, before dissipating completely.

“We should never have taught her that spell,” Minerva mutters, shaking her head before summoning her happiest memory, retrieving her wand from her bun. The young faces of her daughters when they were children, her marriages to Elphinstone and Nuliajuk, _that_ _day_ her first month on the job as a Transfiguration professor with young Darron Montague – all her greatest prides and joys, all the feelings that she grasps and pulls together to break the barrier between worlds.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

White mist swirls from the end of her wand, her tabby guardian – her animagus form, the spirit that rests inside her and resonates against her soul – walking out into the world, twisting to face her upon seeing a lack of threat.

“Go to Roberta, tell her this,” Minerva instructs, “The new McGonagall homestead is Number Six, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. You will pay for an express fare and you will not fill up on pumpkin juice to avoid your sisters cooking like you did the last three times you’ve ‘had’ to take the Knight Bus; and stop using your patronus for this. Your patronus is not for use in trivial matters. We’ll talk more when you arrive. I will see you soon. Number Six, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

The tabby doesn’t bother with any sort of nod or sign it understood, just turning and running away, practically flying out the window into the sky, a shooting white light that Minerva can no longer see.

“She’s going to fill up on pumpkin juice, bet you ten sickles,” Miranda immediately says, nose scrunching up as she tucks a straggly piece of dark brown hair behind her ear. Minerva snorts.

“Suckers bet,” she looks to Isobel, giving her a _Look_ as her youngest goes to answer back – most likely, to bet against Miranda and subsequently owe her ten sickles. Isobel visibly pauses, before shaking her head, getting back to looking after her food, wand flicking this way and that to prepare her veg. Miranda looks far from dejected, though does pout slightly at Minerva.

“Stop that,” Minerva scolds, not sure herself whether she’s talking about the pouting or the betting. Miranda leans back in her chair, grinning, cracking her back, the two of them sitting in a comfortable silence as Isobel and Nulia bicker over proportion and cooking time. Eventually, Nulia is assigned to making her favourite side dish of Bombay potatoes.

Isobel and Nulia cook. Miranda picks up Minerva’s transfiguration text, studying it with one foot drawn up to her seat, shin resting against the table. Minerva sits with her family and thinks of the young boy next door, whose parents are dead and whose honorary uncles are MIA.

_The Boy Who Lived, such a telling name – the Boy Who Lived with the Parents Who Died._

Her fingers twitch. Minerva remembers the end-of-year feast of 1978, the class of ‘71’s final year, when James Potter serenaded Lily Evans in front of the whole school with his gang of Marauders for backup, with Albus’ permission. His absolutely _terrible_ voice was outshone by his back-up singers and Sirius had taken the lead, eventually, James tugging Lily into a dance as two of her own friends – Alice Prewitt and Gabriella Reyes – sung an impromptu harmony. Minerva had cried.

_The Parents Who Died._

Sirius should be raising Harry now, not Petunia and her husband. Maybe it _is_ safer, maybe it _is_ what needs to be done – but it is not what _should_ be done. _MIA. Sirius will have to turn up sooner or later. The Potter House was under the Fidelius – he must be hunting the Secret Keeper, he must be. He’s too much a political target as the heir to the House of Black to be given such a role. Remus and Peter must be with him, unless Remus is still undercover with Greyback._

Minerva purses her lips, considering.

“…Minerva McGonagall,” Nulia starts, eyes locked on her, “what scheme is running through your brilliant mind, _mera pyaar?_ ”

The Master of Transfiguration feels a plan click into place in her mind, her wife a key centrepiece.

“Nulia, Miranda,” she addresses, thinking of a chest of vials in Albus’ care, labelled with care and stored with the deathly hope that they’d never have to be opened. “We need to find Sirius Orion Black.”


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Albus Dumbledore often considers his place in the world. He is Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; a former Apprentice of Nicholas Flamel in the art of alchemy; a recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class for his defeat of Gellert Grindelwald; the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; the Supreme Mugwump for the International Confederation of Wizards; _Le Grand Sorcier_ of the West Europe Council of Sorcerers; and leader and founder of the Order of the Phoenix. All of these titles are important in their own way and often, he finds himself drawn in many which ways at once.

As such, when Minerva McGonagall, his Deputy Headmistress, former Apprentice and most importantly, his _friend_ , asks for the blood of Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore finds himself making a split-second decision rather than taking more than simply a few moments to think over her request.

“Of course, Minerva,” he says, already standing, sweeping across to the portrait of Headmistress Heliotrope Wilkins. The Elder Wand is cool in his grasp, as it always is. Drawing the end down the seam between her portrait frame and the wall behind her, Albus murmurs the password, Heliotrope snorting in dismissal as her brother’s name passes his lips. “If I may ask-” he begins, as the portrait swings open, Minerva interrupting him bluntly.

“I want to track him down. You heard Hagrid, he was distraught. I want to make sure he hasn’t killed himself, the foolish boy. You heard the rumours flying around, too,” she insists, “they thought poor Remus was a traitor. At the expense of Peter’s, Sirius’ and James’ _mental_ _health_ , we let them think their best friend was a honest-to-Circe Death Eater. We both owe it to Sirius to find him.”

“And young Mr Pettigrew?” Albus questions, hand hovering over said young man’s blood sample in the hidden compartment. After a moment, he picks it up, finding Sirius Black’s vial soon enough and taking that one as well. “Will you search for him, too?”

“Unlike Mr Black, I trust Mr Pettigrew’s brain not to go to a darker territory,” she says, but her voice is hesitant. Albus closes the portrait, turning to face Minerva. Her face is drawn out, haggard. She still looks like as she did during the height of the war and Albus can’t blame her – it hasn’t even quite ended, yet. There are still enemies to be rounded up, trials to be had, their society to be repaired; too many things need to be done and Minerva is not doing anything to help.

“Before I give you these,” Albus shows her the vials, “you must swear a magical vow not to use them for dark purposes.”

Her green eyes swirl with petty annoyance, “All blood magic is dark magic,” she barks. Her shoulders straighten and Albus _knows_ then that it was a good idea to send her away – that night they placed young Harry Potter on his aunt and uncle’s doorstep was proof enough that Minerva is still in denial that the war is coming to a close.

“Dark purposes and dark magic are not the same things,” he says gently, stepping closer and pressing them into her hands. “By your magic, do you swear to that you will not let this blood be used for anything other than good purpose, if you can help it?”

“By my magic, I swear, Albus,” Minerva says, voice full of vitriol. A warmth – a heat, a flash of magic – passes through her that the ever-sensitive Headmaster can feel. He lets himself sink into the feeling for a moment, before Minerva takes the vials and tucks them into the inside pocket of her long emerald robes. The golden Sanskrit woven around it gleams, briefly, before the pocket and runes disappear from his sight. “Thank-you for trusting me.”

“I would trust you with anything and everything, my dear,” Albus confides quietly. Minerva takes his hand and he squeezes, a moment of closeness being shared between them. Then, the contact ceases and Minerva is going back to the fire, hand dipping into his stash of Floo powder. She throws it down, calls out _‘Lupin Homestead’_ and as Albus’ eyebrows rise up his forehead, she steps into the emerald flames, lost to the Floo Network.

* * *

Hope is painting the walls again. The smell of fresh paint hangs like a cloud under her nose and Minerva has to put a hand to it, trying to block the strong scent out. Her animagus claws inside at the walls of her body, hating the smell and wanting to go away _now._ But Minerva has a job to do and to do it, she needs to speak to Remus’ mother before giving her wife and eldest the treasured blood of her boys, of Sirius and Peter.

Stepping out of the living room, Minerva makes her way next door to the dining room, eyeing the floral wallpaper that’s been slapped on. To Hope’s credit, it’s only slightly askew and all the lines are joined up.

“Minnie, oh, hello,” Hope greets from the top of a stepladder, waving a paint brush that splatters lavender all over her angular face and soft, blonde hair that she shares with her son. “Do you know where Lyall is?”

“No, I do not – though I would imagine he’s being involved in Fenrir Greyback’s trial,” Minerva says, catching the brief anger that flits across Hope’s face before she nods happily.

“I thought so. We haven’t been getting _The Daily Prophet_ for months now – our subscription was too dangerous, said Lyall.” Hope paints the edge between the wall and the decorative floral rim, still speaking as her straight line lengthens. “No news except what _Witch Weekly_ prints and it’s a glam mag – their most ‘serious’ stories are about how your favourite magical celebrities have survived the War!”

“Where’s Remus, Hope?” Minerva questions, grimacing at her own abruptness.

“He’s recovering in his room,” Hope says, before cursing under her breath. “Dammit, I got paint on the moulding. I need to focus on this, if you don’t mind, Minnie. I’m sure Remus will be happy to know his favourite teacher survived this week, unlike some people.”

 _Unlike some people._ Minerva’s stomach rolls at the reminder that James is dead – that James and Lily are _dead._ Alice Prewitt and Frank Longbottom are supposedly completely numb to the world, now and didn’t Marlene McKinnon and her family disappear from the face of the Earth only a few weeks ago? _Children are dead._ Minerva hasn’t heard from her ex-husband, Elphinstone, in over six months. _Please don’t be dead too,_ she prays, _not you as well._

“Go upstairs,” Hope advises, wiping at the spilled paint with a cloth rather than a wand – her magic-less life shining through, so clear to Minerva in moments like these.

Minerva finds herself in Remus’ room eventually, however, after turning around and walking stiffly up carpeted stairs. She doesn’t knock – his door is open, anyway and she sees him sitting in an armchair in front of a small, but still triple-stacked bookcase. Books upon books – trinkets litter the shelves. There’s no room for any photographs, but those are on the walls, anyway.

Remus has new scars. Fresh ones. A pink bandage wraps around his throat and Minerva’s heart is in her throat, for a moment. _A killing blow._ His hair is braided to the left, dangling over his shoulder, though there are the casual fly-aways of a quick and messy job. He looks up when she appears.

“Professor,” he croaks, voice quiet. The book on his lap closes abruptly. “Hello.”

“Good afternoon,” Minerva says and the greeting is so _banal._ “How are you?”

“I could be better, to be honest,” he says. “I haven’t been able to contact my superior in the Order.”

Another blow lances through her chest. “Storm Faraday is dead,” Minerva swallows. “She died in the line of duty, protecting Diagon Alley from a Death Eater attack. They were going to raid Ollivanders.”

Remus becomes haunted. There’s a change to his pallor and he sinks back into his seat bonelessly. “I see,” is the only thing he says.

In the pocket of her robe, the vials press against her chest and they feel like _hope._ “I’m going to track down your friends,” she tells him.

“Friends?” Remus says, the word sounding like treacle in his mouth, warped and…unhappy. “What friends? One of them was the Secret Keeper. _Sirius_ was the Secret Keeper. Pete was here yesterday, he _told_ me. Sirius is trying to tell some cock and bull story about how _Pete-_ ” his words tear off into nothingness and he bears his teeth, looking rabid and _dark,_ eyes glinting with malice as he looks at Minerva, hands clenching around the arms of the well-worn seat. “I don’t know who to trust. James swore not to make any of us Secret Keeper. The Fidelius would keep them safe, but we were all too obvious choices. But if _Sirius-_ ”

“Sirius would never have been made Secret Keeper,” Minerva denies, shocked. Her interruption causes him to fall silent, giving her a chance to speak. “I’m not sure how well informed you are, but Sirius Black was wanted by You-Know-Who – wanted alive and well. He was a political target. James knew that. They were both always very clever boys, just like you. I never would have ever believed them, if they insisted Sirius was Secret-Keeper. It’s the worst possible choice they could have ever made.”

Uncertainty. Fear. Remus stands from his seat and _Merlin,_ is he tall – taller than her, dammit. That last growth spurt in his seventh year did him well.

“How can we find them?” Remus demands, unstable and shaking in place. The pink bandage around his neck suddenly darkens and Minerva makes a noise halfway between a tut and a scoff, stepping forwards and pushing him back down onto his seat.

“You’re making your neck worse,” she snaps, worried and already undoing the bandage to check on the wound. The muggle stitching is clear and even though she doubts it will work, she tries a healing spell. “ _Vulnera Sanentur._ ”

“It was another wolf,” Remus says, voice barely more than a mumble as he lets her tend him, using magic to clear the blood away and apply freshly conjured bandages. “Normal healing.”

“I remember,” Minerva presses her hand to his forehead, but he’s far from cold or too hot. “Would you like me to summon Poppy?”

“Find Sirius and Pete,” he murmurs. “I’ll call her if it’s an emergency. Didn’t you hear? The war’s over. It’s safe.”

“Not quite yet,” Minerva says. “They’re still rounding his followers up. Bases are still being hit. It’ll be another year, at least, before things can- before _we_ can become something new.”

“Something new,” Remus whispers, looking up at her, so helpless and _hoping,_ now. Oh, how it makes Minerva’s chest ache with relief to see that. “I like the idea of that, Professor.”

“How many times have I told you,” Minerva’s eyes sting, half choking on her own words, “you’re not my student anymore. We’re Order members and in the Order-”

“-we’re all we have,” Remus finishes, “so last names and titles and stupid. Call everyone by the name they choose. You chose Minerva.”

“Oh, you silly boy,” Minerva presses a chaste kiss to his forehead, “my bull-headed Gryffindors. You were mine the moment the Sorting Hat left your head.”

“With special exceptions,” Remus smiles, a grin tugging at his scarred face.

“And Miss Meadowes knew it the entire time,” Minerva shakes her head. “That girl. You know, sometimes, Filius and I deliberately drank a toast to her antics. I got Dorcas Meadowes – he got Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Remus laughs, but it’s cut off by his pained whimper, his limbs curling up instinctually. Minerva grasps his hand, holding it tight.

“I’m no use to anyone like this,” he says, “and you might be running out of time. Sirius and Pete- one of them is lying or- or neither of them know the truth. Get them, before they explode on each other.”

“I swear it, I will,” Minerva promises, “Will you be alright, here, Mr Lupin?”

“Hypocrite.”

“ _Remus._ ”

Remus pauses, before nodding. “My mum is here. She’ll look after me. Find them, please.”

“I will,” Minerva squeezes his hand once more, before letting go and apparating away, out of the Lupin Homestead to her new, muggle abode where her family awaits.

_I’ll find them._


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Godric's Hollow. Dark magic leeches through the street where the Potter’s lived – the Fidelius is cracked and warped, the backlash of a powerful magical explosion smashing it from the inside. Minerva hesitates to go near the house and there are Aurors at either end of the street, watching and waiting. When they see her, they shift and shuffle and one comes forwards. Minerva recognises her as a former Hufflepuff who fought tooth and nail for her Exceeds Expectations in NEWT Transfiguration.

“Professor, you shouldn’t be here.”

Minerva reaches across to rest a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Tiffany, was it?”

Tiffany sags. “Yes, miss. Tiffany Steadings. I’ve been assigned here with the rest of my squad to keep the populace away from the site, Professor. Unless you’re here on behalf of Gringotts, retrieving belongings for a Will…”

“No, I’m not here for that,” Minerva says. “I’m here for two people – two Gryffindor boys. I’ve been tracking their movements and recognised an old apparation pattern. Your sister was an Order member.”

The young witch nods. “Right, yeah – we were transparent about stuff like that. Which one were you following?”

“The Sapphire Trail,” Minerva says, thinking of the blood Nulia spilt on a map. It had pulled itself across Britain like a firestorm rune, tracing the owner’s last steps – twice, once for each sample of blood.

The Order had planned the apparation routes out carefully, creating spots that could only be accessed at certain times of the day, that would attack anyone who tried to appear inside them otherwise. Escape routes. With their mole’s help, the last year had been even more productive, as the apparation spots attacked those carrying the Dark Mark, if the witch or wizard disapparating there was followed.

Tiffany frowns, “Is this the last stop, then?”

“Second to last, but I doubt they’ll move on,” Minerva says, eyes scanning the pavement in front of Lily and James’ home. “The window to apparate onto Hogwarts’ grounds is exceedingly short, after all.”

The Potter’s were in hiding – it didn’t mean they couldn’t do something. They were the last line of defence if the Sapphire Trail was discovered by the wrong side.

Tiffany gapes, “ _Onto Hogwarts’ grounds?_ Is the Order _insane?_ That’s incredibly dangerous! Hogwarts is the most secure place in Britain outside of Gringotts, why compromise that?”

“Not all Order members could just show up at the gates,” Minerva scolds gently, even though in her head, she acknowledges Tiffany’s words. Truly, the Sapphire Trail was rarely ever used, the defences far too wild and extreme for most Order members to consider risking. _Sirius stole Black Books for those defences,_ Minerva remembers, pursing her lips.

Remus had said Sirius was the Keeper, that Peter came to him and told him. To Minerva, it’s poppycock, the reality of the situation not blinding her like it had Remus. However, she also has more information than Remus. Blood tells all. She recalls how Sirius’ blood refused to go that one apparation stop further.

_Sirius was chasing Peter._

“There’s troubling implications to what I know,” Minerva reveals to Tiffany, checking the time, “Get your squad on guard. In the next ten minutes, two men are going to disapparate here. One or both may be volatile, but _don’t_ aim to kill.”

The Auror balks, before straightening and whistling sharply, “Emergency squad meeting, Code Green!”

Minerva watches as Aurors appear. Some walk over from where they’d been acting like muggles, sitting on a graveyard wall with cigarettes that they dispose of; others appear with the usual _crack_ of apparation and disapparation to another place. Only three rid themselves of their disillusionments – one simply tugs an invisibility cloak off their head, leaving them partially disembodied. When they gather around, Minerva counts twelve Aurors, ready to go.

“What’s going on, Auror Steadings?” Tiffany’s superior questions, the bronze plates on his shoulders giving him away as the squad captain. Minerva doesn’t recognise him – but his accent sounds continental. “Who’s the civilian?”

“Minerva McGonagall, Captain…” Minerva raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Daffort, madam,” Captain Daffort introduces himself. “Auror Steadings?”

“Captain, two members of the Order of the Phoenix will be appearing imminently, following an apparation route known as the Sapphire Trail,” Minerva explains, seeing Tiffany shake with nerves, answering for her. “According to a source of mine, each are under the impression that the other is a mole and the Secret Keeper of the Potter family, who gave away their location to You-Know-Who.”

 _Best get it out all at once,_ Minerva thinks, staunch as the Aurors take this in. Her words are shocking, even to herself and she’s the one who said them. It hurts her deeply to think that any of her boys could be Death Eater spies, but there’s something terrible going on here and it needs to be addressed.

“Where’s the apparation point? What’s our time-frame?” Captain Daffort questions after a long moment.

“By the gate,” Minerva points near where the nexus of dark magic stinks up the street, where it escaped through the weakest point in the wards first before it blew up everywhere else – the entrance. “The previous apparation point will open at ten forty-four exactly and close fifteen seconds before ten forty-five. One wizard will already be there and the other will be disapparating into the same space. Unless he misses the window, the first will apparate to this spot and then the second will make two jumps in close succession. I’ll say it now: more than likely, the first wizard _will_ be the supposed Death Eater.”

“Thank-you for the information,” Captain Daffort says, checking the time with a spell, rather than relying on the watch on his wrist. “We have ten minutes. The potential hostiles will be here in twelve. I want four volunteers to stand watch in the green zone, preferably senior-track Aurors.”

There’s a rumble among the Aurors, before a pair steps forwards, obviously partners for some years. Minerva eyes the badges stitched to the purple sleeves of their robes. _Hit-Wizard transfers,_ she thinks with minimal opinion. Shortly afterwards, Tiffany and her partner – the wizard whose head is only visible past his invisibility cloak – volunteer as well. Minerva inwardly wishes them all luck, wondering what must have changed for Tiffany in her years since Hogwarts, what things the war has forced her to do. Taking up watch in a spot of crass, bubbling black magic – it’s far more Gryffindor than Hufflepuff.

 _I should talk more to Pomona,_ Minerva thinks, huffing. _She should join Filius and I for drinks over our favourites._

“Professor, if I could have you at some distance-” Daffort then addresses her and Minerva wants to bristle at the implication that she can’t take care of herself, but she doesn’t and she does as she’s told, taking up space across the road on a wall; to boot, she’s in her animagus form, something that has helped her when she’s wanted to avoid stray spellfire.

 _You couldn’t handle me up close,_ she thinks mulishly, eyes locked on the apparation point.

When Peter and Sirius appear, it is with their wands in their hands. The Aurors are quick to try subduing Peter when he first arrives – but no matter how her boy put himself down, always comparing himself to his friends, Peter Pettigrew is no slacker.

 _Death Eater scum,_ Minerva thinks as she sees the familiar skull-and-snake tattoo on his bare arm.

Before they realise what’s happening, two Aurors are dead and Tiffany Steadings is lying on the ground, bleeding out in the dark nexus. Minerva feels the power building as she transforms back into bipedal form, taking on her former student.

Sirius appears mere seconds after Peter and in the minutes of battle after, it’s clear he feels it too.

“Professor, stop this!” Peter tries to defend himself, but Minerva is focused. The only words that exit her mouth are spells and curses – of the swearing kind.

In the gate of the Potter household, where Sirius is tending to Tiffany, she sees the scandalised expression and nearly laughs, but she’s too angry over James and _her boys_ to do so. Similarly to Sirius, Peter falters at her crass language and it allows Captain Daffort to immobilise him. Peter falls to the ground and two different sets of rope wrap around him, before Minerva casts an anti-animagus charm.

 _A rat in two different ways,_ she thinks in disgust, remembering the first time her boys ever transformed for the Order to see – how James fell over his own hooves when his antlers got caught in Dedalus Diggle’s robes and Sirius scared the living daylights out of poor Hasty Wellington. He was- _is_ a Grim, a wolf by another name – but one so large and horrific that Minerva had stepped back when she saw him, a flicker of fear causing her spine to stiffen up, the hairs on the back of her arms rising.

Third and least noticeable of them all had been Peter, who jumped up from the seat of his chair to the table, smaller than Sirius’ paw but larger than your average rat.

Now, the spell settles around him, a blue glow settling into his skin. Sirius grins nastily at his brother in stasis, getting to his feet and lunging – only for the last of all the Aurors’ spells to rush across the empty space and strike his arm instead of the wall. Minerva freezes as it cuts through fabric, skin and bone, the limb falling to the ground. Sirius doesn’t even seem to realise what has happened until he’s fallen to his knees, body going into shock.

“You _daft boy!_ ” she yells, rushing over to him. Sirius falls backwards, dazed and bleeding. Minerva can feel the dark magic that poisons the air around them reaching outwards, that is strengthening and rising with every drop of blood spilled, but she doesn’t pay it any mind – her mistake.

“Contain them both,” Captain Daffort orders as Tiffany’s partner tends to her. Hesitantly, Minerva casts the same anti-animagus charm over Sirius, who chokes on his own spit at the binding.

“No, no-”

“It’s temporary, Mr Black,” Minerva replies hastily as she retrieves his limb, binding both with tight bandages. They both go red instantly and Minerva calls over one of the Aurors, not even needing to tell them to transport them both to St Mungos – in her frazzled state, there is no way she would safely be able to apparate and disapparate safely.

St Mungos, of course, is pristine and bustling when they arrive. Minerva has never disapparated straight into the hospital before, but she knows that the Auror Corps have the correct magical license to do so. Within moments of arriving, Sirius is pulled onto a magical stretcher and hurried away – arm and all. Moments later, Tiffany appears in the arms of her partner, who follows her bloodied body away after she’s put on a stretcher.

“Professor McGonagall, I’ll stay with Mr Black,” the Auror who’d accompanied Minerva assures her, “The Captain will send someone else to join me in guarding him. You’d better head back to Godrics Hollow before they vanish with Mr Pettigrew.”

“Yes- yes, thank-you,” Minerva says and then there’s another whirlwind of travel. Godric’s Hollow is _shaking_ , the blood spilled in the dark nexus causing the picturesque town harm. Tiles fall from rooves, stones from the blown-out second floor of the Potter homestead fall to the ground and in the centre of it all, Peter is trying to change into his animagus form.

 _Can he do it?_ Minerva wonders for a moment, Captain Daffort staring at his prisoner in horror as his face twists into a more rat-like visage and then back to human over and over. _The nexus powers him_ , Minerva thinks, knowing in her bones that it must be true. _Dark to dark, light to light._

With nary a switch of her wrist, Peter is summoned closer to her across the road, out of the dark nexus. There are both good and bad effects of this. Peter stops changing, unable to draw strength from the natural forces of his alignment, but the nexus grows unstable, too. The shaking is almost enough to knock her over.

“Captain, you must stabilise the area!” Minerva yells, stunning Peter and then doing it again, for good measure.

“Stabilise- stabilise!” Daffort begins to question her words, before realising what she means. “Aurors, to me! Surround the perimeter, quarantine the house!”

“ _Aye, captain!”_

 _“Yes, captain!_ ”

Words of encouragement are shared, protocol and methods discussed. Two Aurors are sent off to get DoM Wardmasters and other relevant authorities to take over what has turned into a shitshow of a watch-job.

Minerva, meanwhile, tightens her grip on Peter Pettigrew’s shoulder and in the panic of the moment, where all the Aurors are focused on making sure Godric’s Hollow remains a dot on the map, she disapparates with Peter in tow.

_He’s mine._


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

Sirius’ room in St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies is dull. The charmed window shows a peaceful beach by the ocean, the walls are warded for silence and the bedcovers are a gentle, calming blue.

Sirius is bored as hell.

“It’s just a little dark magic,” he whines at his healer, a stern-faced wizard by the name of Darwin. “I’ve spent plenty time around it before.”

“ _Exactly,_ ” Darwin stresses, a twitch developing on his eyebrow. “You just lost an arm, Mr Black and because of your previous exposure to dark magic and how your limb was detached inside of a dark nexus, we cannot _reattach_ it. As your healer, I am not comfortable releasing you from this specific room into a public ward until the corrosive dark magic has been leeched from your system.”

“Black’s are _borne_ of the dark,” Sirius continues to whine, but Darwin remains unconvinced. Sirius watches with a certain despondency as Darwin does his tests, wand flicking this way and that until he’s satisfied, parchment full of illegible readings and results. “When can I have visitors?”

“Light-aligned wix will become ill in this room,” Darwin mutters. “So unless you’re friends with some dark-aligned wix or dark creatures, you can’t have any guests, Mr Black.”

“Dark creatures?” Sirius jerks up, eyes widening. _Remus!_ “What about a werewolf?”

Darwin pauses.

“You’re friends with a werewolf?”

“Best buds,” Sirius swallows, guilt manifesting in his stomach as he recalls how he and James thought Remus was the spy; how he and James made Peter the Secret-Keeper because they thought Remus couldn’t be trusted to be their werewolf mole in the Order. “Can I invite him?”

“…I’ll get you some parchment and send it off with one of the hospital owls,” Darwin promises.

“ _Thank-you,_ ” Sirius says, heartfelt.

Darwin pats his arm. “It’s no problem, Mr Black.”

* * *

“Naughty, naughty…there we go,” Nulia waves her wand over the surface of Peter’s skin. Minerva watches as it heals over, the new markings pink against the pale white of his complexion. “Now, do you understand what these little wards do, Mr Pettigrew?”

Peter, his face waxen, nods. Minerva grimly recalls the _Exceeds Expectations_ he got on his Ancient Runes OWL.

Nulia traces one with her nail. “Now, now, _verbal_ answers, please. You are not a toddler, young sir, no, no…”

“I understand,” Peter whispers, obviously terrified.

“Good. These are irreversible, of course. You’ll be telling the truth for all your days. It won’t matter once you’re in Azkaban, but for the trial, it will be enough.”

“Is this legal?” Roberta questions, fascinated by the process.

“Your mother is registered, so yes, it is legal, praise Morgana for the fact,” Minerva nods, staunch in her support. Nulia winks at her, lips curling upwards. Minerva smiles back at her fondly. “As an enemy of our family, we even get around the Consent Agreement.”

Miranda, who is reading in the living room, speaks up at that point. “Antiquated laws come in handy sometimes!”

“I still don’t like ‘em,” Roberta scowls, the old argument making its presence known in their new house. “Just because they’re useful at times, doesn’t mean they should remain in our books.”

“Correct,” Nulia says, “but it’s still fucking funny when pureblood paranoia benefits the light.”

Minerva rolls her eyes. “Enough. How long until we can hand this rat into the DMLE?”

“Any time you want, _mera pyaar_ ,” Nulia replies, patting Peter’s arm once more before hauling him to his feet. “Floo or apparation?”

“Hmm,” Minerva glances around the dining room, Nulia’s needles and potions still set up for all to see. Through the slit between the blind and the window-frame, the only thing you can see is their backgarden and even that is barely visible in the dark. “Let’s wait until morning.”

“Do we have to?” Roberta frowns. “He’s already been in the basement two days.”

“He can stay one more night,” Nulia waves her off, dragging him towards the cupboard under the stairs that she had extended mere hours before Peter’s arrival into their home, turning it into a basement-cum-dungeon. Minerva watches them disappear into the corridor, heavy disappointment roiling in her gut.

 _My boys,_ she thinks, sniffling pitifully as she remembers how the Marauders were in school. Roberta’s arms wrap around her from behind a second later and she pats her daughter’s wrist in thanks, clutching her tightly.

“You would have got on famously,” Minerva rasps, Roberta’s chin resting on the top of her head.

“Didn’t Miranda go to his wedding with you?”

“Yes,” Minerva recalls the spectacle, “Nulia was in Canada with your uncle.”

“Can _we_ go to Canada? It’d make a great family holiday,” Roberta says, wistful. Minerva chuckles.

“On my salary?”

“On _all_ our salaries,” Roberta argues lightly.

Minerva snorts. “The day _you_ part with any galleons you’ve saved up is the day I put on mugglewear.”

“I’d give up my galleons for a holiday with everyone,” Roberta pauses, “including Dad.”

 _Oh, my love,_ Minerva tightens her grip on Roberta’s wrist. “He’s somewhere out there, I’m sure of it. He’s probably holed up in a little croft somewhere with wards able to kill dragons, the paranoid bastard.”

“Yeah,” Roberta says, clearly still worried.

“You’re not doing much,” Miranda calls out, “Why don’t you go around looking for him? Go out to our old houses and family homes.”

“Maybe,” Roberta hedges and Minerva sighs, reaching up blindly to pat her head.

“Dear, I know you aren’t working right now. You might as well go look. Elphinstone isn’t dead – but if he is, we all deserve to know.”

A huff. Roberta pulls away, crossing her arms as she goes across to the kitchen, glaring at the dirty cauldron by the sink before getting out the cleaning supplies. Minerva sighs. _What is she so upset about? Elphinstone is missing, not- not dead. He can’t be dead._

“Your father might be just waiting for you all to come looking,” Minerva points out. “It would be very like him.”

“I’d rather mooch off you than go look,” Roberta sulks, already scrubbing, the bubbles already scarlet from the potion Nulia brewed. Minerva knows the recipes are passed on from mother to daughter – Miranda was the one who chose that path, of all Nulia’s chosen children and for all Roberta’s O++ NEWT in Potions does her, the recipes will never be hers to learn or know.

“Stop being so contrary,” Minerva snaps at her, annoyed at her now. “You want him to join us for holidays, but you won’t look for him?”

“I don’t want to be let down – is that so much to ask?” Roberta fires back, equally incensed. She hisses as she catches her nail on cauldron gunk, muttering curses to herself as she takes care of the bloody, ragged end.

Nulia returns from the basement. “What are we fighting over now?”

“Elphinstone,” Minerva mutters, before standing. “I have marking to do. I might as well stay the night at Hogwarts.”

“I’ll take Pettigrew to the DMLE tomorrow,” Nulia says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll make your favourite on Wednesday, so come home for dinner.”

“Thank-you, dearie,” Minerva murmurs, giving her wife her own chaste kiss on the lips before turning to Roberta. “This conversation isn’t finished.”

“Alright,” she grumbles, “Bye, then.”

“Bye Mum,” Miranda calls out.

Gathering her things, Minerva makes her way to the conservatory, summoning her winter cloak with a flick of her wand. As it settles around her shoulders, she makes one last check on young Harry, a small seeing-eye charm letting her pinpoint him through walls and ceilings.

 _Asleep,_ she notes, frowning at the travel-cot in the spare bedroom that he’s lying in. _Mrs Dursley should have gotten him his own cot by now._

Deciding to check on that again at a later date, Minerva apparates to Hogwarts’ gates, bracing herself for the cold wind and utterly failing at predicting the other elements. She curses as the snow gets up her skirt, brushing against her bare legs.

“Merlin almighty, have you ever heard of snow wards, Albus?” Minerva mutters irately, making her way up the path to the castle, using her wand to melt a path in front of her through eight foot drifts as she goes. When she reaches the entrance hall, Argus is there, mopping up.

“Good evening, Professor,” he grunts.

“Argus,” Minerva greets levelly. “A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Damn children,” Argus mutters, shaking his head. “Sneaking out and about. Bloody Hufflepuff’s having a party in one of the greenhouses. Sprout put ‘em in detention for not inviting her.”

Minerva snorts. “Of course. Will you be coming to the staff Yule party this year?”

“Thinking about it,” he shrugs, before getting back to his mopping. Minerva gladly turns away, retreating to her office on the second floor.

Once in her little sanctuary, cloak hung up, Minerva settles in behind her desk. The house-elves had obviously seen her talking to Argus, because the fire is already set and burning, the room on the colder side of temperate. On her desk waits a tea set of Earl Grey, ginger newts set in a pretty spiral.

“Thank-you,” Minerva murmurs, picking one up to munch on as she flicks her wand, pouring tea and summoning the sixth year essays she has to read and grade. _Hopefully, some of them have realised this year is more about their own exploits than the curriculum._

Sadly, only two of twelve have realised completely that NEWT Transfiguration is for them. Minerva internally weeps for the conversation she’s going to have to have with the other ten – and the good two as well, just in case – about the dissertation they’ll have to do after Yule.

 _This isn’t OWL-level magic you’re doing anymore!_ Minerva screams in her head, groaning over the pubescent brains of sixteen year-olds. To think, she thought at least six of them had promise, if only they _studied_. Disappointed at her own selection and lack of forethought, Minerva gets out her notebook, putting damning question marks beside certain students’ names. At the top of the list, underlined, are the words ‘Potential Animagi Students’.

_Knock-knock._

Minerva glances up in time to see her office door open. “What kind of time do you call this?” she barks, frowning at the student popping their head in. _McIntyre, Aiden McIntyre. A fourth year- no, third year._

A Slytherin third year, at that.

“Professor- Professor, something happened in the common room and I can’t find Professor Slughorn,” McIntyre says, clenching his teeth. “Please, can you come help?”

“What is it?” Minerva stands, happy she hadn’t yet changed into her nightgown. Circling her desk, she approaches the door, McIntyre stepping back into the corridor as she shuts and locks it.

“There- there was a fight,” McIntyre says, leading her towards the dungeons. “A duel, rather. I mean, we have duels in the common room, sometimes, but the wards weren’t working this time. No-one realised until they cracked.”

Minerva stares at the boy, scandalised. “Duels in the common room? What kind of spells are Slytherin students using that would _crack wards?_ Who even set that kind of system up?”

McIntyre shakes his head, looking away. Minerva eyes him suspiciously, wondering if he knows or not, but picks up the pace.

“What happened once they cracked?”

“There was a backlash,” he says in a manner like he’s repeating something someone else said. “The wards were lanced in a break by accident.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

McIntyre glances at her, face red. “Sort of? Not really, but…my friends are trapped in the floor. Half the furniture sunk into the floor. They aren’t hurt, but they’re still uncomfortable. The older years thought it was funny.”

“And clearly, it is not,” Minerva says, tone frosty.

When they arrive at the common room, there’s a certain atmosphere Minerva immediately dislikes. Elder Slytherin’s are sat around, leaning against sofas and sitting at tables, studying – but most are snickering or teasing the students who are in trouble. Near to the centre of the room, over half a dozen third and second years are each stuck partially or midway through the stone.

“-two galleons? That’s really _all_ you get a year? How pitiful,” one of the sixth years whose essay Minerva had only just been marking snorts, wand held lazily in hand as he speaks to one of the second years in the floor. Around him, certain pupils notice Minerva’s presence – but the young wizard, Holland Marcoux, who Minerva had thought to be an _excellent_ animagi candidate, does not. “How about you give me all your change and those earrings? They look like they’d fetch a pretty sickle.”

“Indeed they might, Mr Marcoux,” Minerva interrupts in a sharp voice. “Unfortunately, you’ll be serving detention with Mr Filch next Hogsmeade weekend.”

Marcoux looks up, shocked. “Professor!”

“Seeing as Professor Slughorn was… _unavailable_ , Mr McIntyre wisely thought to fetch another professor,” Minerva levels him with a glare. “Duelling in the common room? Duelling hard enough that whatever ward scheme that was set up was _shattered?_ I want the full story and I want it now, from the culprits in question.”

Silence.

Minerva flicks her wand, transfiguring the floor into sand. McIntyre is quick to help his destabilised friends get to their feet, finding the stone easily. They get out, each thanking her quickly and quietly, before huddling against the wall.

Clearly, they can see Minerva is far from finished with Slytherin this evening.

“For every person in the common room at this moment in time, disregarding those who were in the floor and Mr McIntyre,” Minerva bites, “ten points will be removed from the Slytherin.”

As there are currently over thirty Slytherin’s in the common room, it’s safe to say there is an immediate backlash.

“But Professor-”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Professor, we don’t deserve that-”

“That’s _so many points!_ ”

Minerva cuts them all off, “Unless I get people coming forwards to explain the matter of the broken wards, these points _will_ be taken once I leave the common room. If you were involved in the duel itself, I _will_ be having words with you.”

More silence, until-

“Mulciber and Jarvey were duelling!” a fifth-year witch exclaims, immediately being glared at by said seventh years. “I don’t know what spell Jarvey used, but it was bright purple and it made a hole in the wall!”

She points to where the NEWT students are standing and when Minerva glares hard enough, they shuffle out of the way to show a gaping, cracked maw that they must have been temporarily warding – because when they move out of the way, she can sense the dark magic still flaring and dying down after what must have been over half an hour since the duel itself.

“Jarvey, Mulciber, you will be seeing the Headmaster tomorrow morning for using dark magic inside Hogwarts,” Minerva says, feeling the blood rush out her cheeks. “You reckless boys – if that sort of magic had hit anyone, regardless of the spell’s outcome itself, you’d be greeting Law Enforcement rather than just talks of expulsion.”

Edward Jarvey, the perpetrator, whitens, but otherwise stands tall.

“There will be no more duels in Slytherin common room and I _will_ be having Professor Slughorn enforce this,” Minerva informs them. “If you’re all so eager to duel, you can join the Hogwarts Duelling League or even use the formal platform, if your honour is so impugned; but you will _not_ duel in public or in this space, which is meant to be a safe haven for you all. Do you all understand?”

Many _yes'_  and _yes professor’s_ come from around the room, before some stupid little boy asks her.

“But Professor, what about the points?”

Minerva levels them with a deadened expression. “They will remain taken, as none of you bar one did anything when your housemates were stuck in the floor. Mr McIntyre will receive twenty points for his actions on behalf of friends, but the rest of you _will_ have ten points taken for standing by, trying to bargain their freedom or otherwise doing nothing.” Minerva sends an especially dirty look at Marcoux. “I would have expected better from you. Don’t even _think_ about asking me about further personal study past your NEWTS in Transfiguration again.”

Marcoux looks as if she’s just stolen his fortune. “Professor…”

“No,” she shakes her head. “You have talent, but blackmailing children? No, Mr Marcoux. I won’t have you. Your actions reflect upon you and I have the privilege of seeing you in what has been your natural environment for the past five and half years. Much can be said about you all,” Minerva looks at the seventh years who’d tried to hide the damage to the castle. “This will be an unofficial mark on your records, unless you’re Edward Jarvey or Penitence Mulciber; you both remember to appear in the Headmaster’s office at eight o’clock, if you please.”

“Yes, Professor,” they say in time with pursed lips.

“Good.” Minerva spares Slytherin house one last look. “Unless you’re studying for end-of-term tests or doing homework, all of you get to bed – _now._ ”

She waits until two thirds of the common room empties, including the seventh years, before leaving, feeling particularly disappointed in them all.

 _Dark magic in Hogwarts,_ Minerva shudders, wondering if Jarvey learnt that curse from his family. _Death Eater’s, the lot of them, or at least sympathisers._

When she returns to her office, Minerva sends Albus a letter reporting the incident and of their eight o’clock appointment in the morning. Albus makes a point of being in the school till nine, usually, returning for the end of sixth period at five o’clock unless he has international engagements.

Minerva sips her Earl Grey and shuts her eyes.

“Cold tea. _Brilliant._ ”


End file.
